"The notion that such persons are gay of heart and carefree is curiously untrue. They lead, as a matter of fact, an existence of jumpiness and apprehension. They sit on the edge of the chair of Literature. In the house of Life they have the feeling that they have never taken off their overcoats."- James Thurber, My Life and Hard Times

Monday, August 25, 2014

Supposedly, that's Scottish Gaelic for "farewell, friends." At least according to the internet, where everything you read is true.What IS true is that we'll be in Scotland for almost two weeks to visit these:

The Kelpies at Falkirk

Of course, we'll also sleep in a castle, tour Holyrood Palace, and have plenty of tea. My hubby will golf one day. I will ride a horse. Here's my Pinterest page with all the places we'll stay and visit, etc.http://www.pinterest.com/gaylecarline/scotland-2014/I'll be back on September 8, and as soon as the jet lag wears off, I'll give you all the highlights. P.S. If you're reading this thinking, hmm, they're gonna be gone so their house is ripe for breaking and entering, let me assure you of three things: 1) We have two dogs that love to bark at strangers, 2) We have a friend housesitting for us so our house is not vacant, and 3) We have absolutely nothing that's worth anything.

Friday, August 22, 2014

Hi, Peeps! I'm engrossed in a whirlwind of writing, cleaning, and shopping in preparation for my big trip to Scotland on Monday. There's so much I need to be doing, but LJ Sellers and Peg Brantley invited me to participate in a Character Blog Hop, so off I go, hippity-hop-hop. I thought I'd tell you all about the main character from MURDER ON THE HOOF.

1) What is the name of your character? Is she fictional
or a historic person?

Wilhelmina (Willie) Adams is a purely fictional character. I used a little bit of this person I used to know, plus that person I've met, plus... well, you get the idea. I made her a software engineer, because I wanted her to have a job I didn't have to research. And I made her quite a bit younger than me - 35. I wanted a younger audience with a romance, but I grow tired of the twenty-somethings in books who seem to have all the fun.

My mental picture of Willie.

2) When and where is the story set?

The story is in contemporary times, and is set at the Los Angeles Equestrian Center, at an AQHA horse show. AQHA is American Quarter Horse Association, and represents the Quarter horse breed. Basically, there are two types of horse shows: breed-specific with lots of events, and event-specific with lots of breeds.

Cattitude - one of my favorite Quarter horses!

3) What should we know about her?

What you should know about Willie is that she is a fiercely independent nerd who has been a widow for three years. She has spent those years "flying below the radar" - going to work, trying out different hobbies, putting one foot in front of the other. In other words, just trying to survive the pain of losing her husband. Horses are the first hobby that has made her happy.

4) What is the main conflict? What messes up her life?

She goes to a horse show to buy her first horse, and a man attacks her, then is found murdered in her tack room (that's where they keep the saddles). She just wants to continue to get through life without any more pain, but instead she's a suspect in the murder investigation, AND she is attracting attention from two suitors. They are both good men, completely different, and she doesn't know if she wants ANY romance, let alone either of them.

5) What is the personal goal of the character?

Like I said, at first she just wants to buy a horse. Once she is suspected of murder, her primary goal is replaced by a new one - clear her name!

I want to thank my buds, LJ and Peg, for including me in this blog hop. A little about them...L.J. Sellers writes the bestselling Detective Jackson mystery/thriller series—a two-time Readers Favorite Award winner—as well as the Agent Dallas series and provocative standalone thrillers. Her 16 novels have been highly praised by reviewers, and she’s one of the highest-rated crime fiction authors on Amazon. You can find her at http://ljsellers.com.

Peg Brantley is a suspense novelist and has three thrilling works available to speed your pulse. She spent over 25 years in corporate America, but is happy to have those years behind her, and be engaging her readers in compelling stories instead. A Colorado native, Peg is a member of Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers, Colorado Authors’ League, and Sisters In Crime. Read more about Peg at http://pegbrantley.com.

On Monday, August 25, you need to hop over to Teresa Burrell's blog to find out more about one of her characters.

Teresa Burrell has dedicated her life to helping children and their families, as a schoolteacher for twelve years and then as a lawyer. She focused her solo practice in juvenile court where she worked primarily with abused minors. She also received several awards from the San Diego Volunteer Lawyer Program for her countless hours of pro bono work with children and families.
Burrell writes legal suspense mysteries, incorporating many of her experiences. Her “Advocate Series” consists of five books starting with The Advocate to the most recent, The Advocate’s Ex Parte. She can be found online at www.teresaburrell.com, http://www.facebook.com/theadvocateseries

Friday, August 15, 2014

My horse trainer, Niki, had a question for me and our friend Christine today. She had read in a parenting magazine that little boys going into kindergarten needed to be taught how to use a urinal so they don't drop their pants in the restrooms that are shared by the older boys (BTW, nothing in this article pointed to inappropriate/abusive behavior). Since Christine and I have both raised sons, she wanted to know if this was important.Neither Christine nor I had imparted this info to our boys, although I told Niki that if anyone needs to teach her son, it sounded like a dad thing to me. Seriously, I've never used a urinal - what would I know?Of course, after telling her that, I messaged my son. "So when you were a little kid, was it hard to learn to use the restrooms at Morse (elementary school)?"I'm sure I baffled him. "Not that I can recall," he said.He then went on to explain that the only semi-difficult part was to figure out that you didn't need to drop your pants, which was kind of embarrassing, but you see the other kids and you figure it out. "They might laugh at you but you pick up on it."Ah. That's what some parent in the parenting magazine is trying to prevent. Someone's son was laughed at and he was possibly a sensitive soul (oh-so-not judging) and he was upset. Laughing at someone's inexperience is not a kind thing to do, but it is a kid thing to do, and combined with other events, could definitely point toward bullying.And we can't let our kids be bullied.Let's be clear: I don't like bullies. I don't like people picking on other people, no matter what the age. And I think bullying can very much depend upon the recipient sometimes. A tender heart is bruised more easily.With all that being said, when I think of bullies (or poverty or violence or any other kind of worldly pain), I think of astronauts. One of the things they discovered being in space for long periods is that their muscles atrophied because there was no gravity for them to push against. We take gravity for granted, but without it, our entire physical structure would break down. We need to be pushed by gravitational force so we can simply stand up.So even though I want a world of peace, love, and understanding, when I see pain or injustice, it activates my "moral gravity." I have something to push against, to strengthen my resolve to make the world better. I don't like bullies, but knowing they exist makes me vigilant. A perfect world might make me a moral slacker, willing to let evil creep in because I might be too weak morally to fight it.To take this into writer's territory, I think this is what gives our stories their life. If our characters are not pushing against some wrong, what makes a reader turn the page?It's a Catch-22 world. We want to stop the madness, and our drive to stop it is what grounds us morally.

Monday, August 11, 2014

If you're a Cyndi Lauper fan, you know that's the name of her first album, the one that had four top-five hits. I saw her last week on PBS' Front and Center, performing songs from that album in celebration of its 30th anniversary. I love concerts where the artist tells you about themselves in between songs, and Cyndi delivered that in spades. She told a story of playing the ukulele and singing to a stadium of 10,000 people and how they all -ALL- booed her. "When you get booed by 10,000 people in a stadium," she said. "ya grow a different kind of a spine."I love that.She's on my mind because she's one of those women who has always gone her own way and done her own thing and been unapologetic about whether you like it or not, even though I'm sure she wanted people to like her enough to buy her music because that's what you do as an artist. You create something and tell yourself it's about the creating of the thing and no one else's opinion matters, but then when it's done you YEARN for someone to love what you've created.I like to think about women like Cyndi when I'm embarking on a new creative voyage, which is what I'm doing. You see, the good thing about being an author-publisher is that you can write whatever you want. The bad thing is that you can write whatever you want. I need to be writing the next Peri mystery. My imagination keeps bugging me to write about a girl pirate.So I'm writing both at the same time. Don't worry, I can keep them both separate. Peri will not be swashbuckling any time soon.I'm having great fun with the pirate fantasy. It's violent, it's sexy, it's a lot of things I don't usually write. It's so unlike me, I may have to release it under a pen name. I only have a couple of problems with it:1. I'm so into the characters and the plot that I'm not paying much attention to the time frame. Does "somewhere around the time of the Spanish Armada" get close enough? Or do I need to spend time taking my reader into The Period? Do I need to anchor the story to some event?2. I used to read a lot of adventure/fantasy when I was young, but I haven't read any in a while. What if I'm writing one big fat cliché full of clichés? What if it's been done and overdone, by younger and hipper writers?Here's the premise: Lisette, a young noblewoman, is supposed to get engaged to Eric on her 18th birthday. Their marriage will unite their small island kingdom against Spain. Instead, Lisette is betrayed by Eric and a Spanish girl, Mercedes, so that Spain can claim the island for its own. Lisette is sold to a pirate, Rocco, who plans to sell her to a duke who wants to buy a virgin. Except that Lisette will not go down without a fight. She plans to gather the gold and skills to return to her island and take her revenge on the people who betrayed her.Does that sound interesting?Here's a piece of the first chapter (this is a ROUGH draft):* * * * *

The masked man
swung his blade at the small girl with precision, and the girl raised hers in
response. A clang of metal echoed through the chamber. Having pushed her
assailant back, she grasped the hilt with both hands and moved into him, hewing
right and left with each step. He matched her stroke for stroke, suddenly
charging in with an uppercut.

Leaping back and
to the side, she shielded herself from his sword with her own. In her
peripheral vision, she could see the stairs up to her bedchamber. Her bare feet
danced to the fourth step, giving her the advantage of height.

He rushed at
her, his blade hissing with furious speed, but she parried each movement,
attempting to bend him backward and send him down the staircase. Instead, he
pressed upward, causing her to climb, backward, toward the higher level.

A sudden
pounding at the outer door distracted her. In the briefest of moments, she felt
her sword flying from her hand and her legs buckling underneath her. She was
forced to the cold marble, the steps carving into her backbone. The man
followed her to the ground, his body smothering her own. The thin shirt and
leggings he wore could not hide the hardness she felt pushing against her
thigh, and she blushed at the excitement of her breasts rubbing his chest.

The only thing
separating them was his sword, held sideways at her throat.

“Lisette! Are
you all right?”

She pulled her own
mask from her face and glared at the man on top of her. “It’s Mama.”

Tossing his
sword aside, he removed his mask. “I thought she was visiting her sister.”

His face was
still close, his body still caressing hers, still excited. Lisette stared into
his blue eyes, curtained with dark lashes, and briefly considered his beauty,
then focused on the problem at hand.

“Get off me,”
she whispered, then shouted at the door. “One moment, Mama.”

The next few
seconds were a scramble to pull her skirt and bodice over her pantaloons and
muslin top. Shoving his sword into her fencing companion’s hand, she motioned
for him to climb to the bedroom and hide, then ran down the stairs to the door.
On her way, she noticed her own blade on the floor and snatched it up. She propped
it behind a tapestry, then unlocked the chamber.

“Mama, I thought
you were visiting Tantie Elena.”

The elegant,
older woman glided into the room as if she were sailing on a cloud, then turned
to look at her daughter. Marie’s gaze could be brutal. She could elicit a
confession from any of the household help, and often reduced Lisette’s younger
brother to tears. Lisette was not immune, but she was still headstrong enough
to follow one lie with another in an attempt to escape discovery and its
consequences. She forced herself to relax her eyebrows and meet her mother’s
glare.

“You are a mess,”
Marie said at last.

Lisette pressed
her dark auburn curls upward from her face. “I’m so sorry. I was resting
upstairs, and the room has been so warm. I’m sorry if I didn’t hear you right
away.”

Her mother did
not look convinced. “I thought I heard swordplay before I knocked.”

“Swordplay?”
Lisette laughed. “Whatever would I be doing playing with swords?”

“Let us not be
coy, Daughter. When I caught you last month dancing about in those scandalous
clothes, I believe you were warned not to do it again.”

“That is why I
did not.”

“Because if you
do, your father and I shall lock you in the tower. You understand this, yes?”

“Yes, Mama.”
Lisette kept her head down, attempting obedience.

Marie’s face
softened, and she put her hand out to touch Lisette’s chin. “My darling
Lisette, do not think we are unreasonable. Believe me, locking you away is the
last thing we want to do. Your betrothal to Eric will combine our two houses,
which will hopefully keep Spain from trying to rule our island. But Eric will
not want a wife with such barbaric skills. Your brother is two years away from
a marriage match. We could perhaps keep the Spanish at bay for that long, but
your marriage saves us from two years of difficulty. You must abandon your
rough and tumble hobbies, at least until Eric says ‘I do’.”

Her mother
reached into the pocket of her dress and held a piece of silk out to her
daughter with a smile. “Happy birthday, Daughter.”

Taking the item
from her mother, Lisette unfolded it. Her eyes widened. “Mama, your necklace.”
She withdrew a large emerald on a delicate golden chain. The jewel itself was a
deep blue-green, so clear that Lisette could see the ocean in its depths.

“I cannot give
you much. But this was my mother’s, and her mother’s before her.” Marie seemed
lost in her thoughts. “It is our safety net. Never be afraid to use its value
to get what you want.”

Lisette wanted
to cry, but she smiled instead. “Eric is a good man. I’ll be able to keep this
until I hand it down to my own daughter.”

Marie smiled
back, her own eyes shining. She kissed her daughter’s cheek, and opened her
mouth. “My dear—”

“Lisette,” a
child’s voice called from the corridor. A young man burst into the room, scruffy
in his ragged clothes and muddy shoes. “Lisette have you seen my mother?”

“Edmund.” Marie’s
voice was sharp. “Your mother is at work. You are supposed to be cleaning the
stables.”

The little boy
backed against the wall, away from Lisette’s mother. The sound of scraping and
clattering was heard as the hidden sword hit the floor.

Lisette stared
at the sword for a half-second, willing herself to appear calm but surprised.

“Poussin,” she
said, calling the boy by her pet name for him. “I told you not to bring your
father’s sword along when you play in my room.”

She swept the
blade up and cradled the hilt in his hands, staring at him with meaning. The
boy feigned contrition. “I’m sorry, Miss Lisette. I forgot.”

The young girl
winked, then turned to her mother. “When Gigette was straightening my quarters
yesterday, I’m afraid I told him he could play in here. He likes to be with his
mother.”

Marie stretched
tall and stood, expressionless. She was quiet for a few moments, and Lisette
worried that her lie would be discovered. The young girl looked at Poussin. He
was nodding and caressing the sword.

Lisette watched
Marie’s eyes narrow, then relax. The older woman turned and floated toward the
door. “Gigette will be in soon to help you prepare for the party.”

“Yes, Mama.” She
watched the older woman leave down the corridor, then shut the door and sighed.

“That lie will
cost you,” Poussin said.

“It’s worth
every sous.” She smiled and went to the fireplace. A small ceramic dragon sat
on the mantle. She opened the gold hinge at its belly and extracted several
coins. Placing them in the young boy’s outstretched palm, she told him, “Take
the sword to your room. I’ll retrieve it later.”

Opening the
door, she guided him out, glancing down the hall to see if her mother was nearby.
The way appeared clear, and the sword in the boy’s hand would solidify her
falsehood. She closed the door, turned and looked to the top of the stairs.

One lie down,
one to go.

She ran upstairs
to her room and laid her gift on her dressing table, then peered around.
Lucian, her fencing partner, was nowhere to be seen.

“Lucian? Where
are you?” She tried to keep her voice low, in case anyone was spying. “Lucian?”
She checked under the bed and continued to whisper his name. He was not behind
the window drapes to her right, so she went to the left, calling.

A hand reached
out of the heavy tapestry and grabbed her wrist, pulling her into the darkness.
The other hand wrapped around her waist and pulled her close to him. She could
smell his familiar mixture of sweat and smoke from the blacksmith shop where he
worked, shoeing horses.

“Lizzy,” he
whispered as his face drew nearer.

She pushed him
away and moved into the light. “Lucian, stop. Remember who we are.”

“I don’t care. I
might not be able to give you a castle, but I can give you a good life. I am
good at my trade, and have many customers. We could be happy.” He followed her,
spinning her toward him. He eased his hands back to her waist.

“Yes, I’m sure.”
She put her hands out to stop his advance. “You would work all day in your
shop, and come home to plant your seeds each night. Soon we would have children
the way the pantry has mice.”

He smiled, and
she could see the mischief behind it. His eyes had a sparkle to them as he
leaned in to whisper in her ear.

“There are ways,
I’ve heard, to have one’s pleasure and keep children from coming.” His lips
brushed her jaw and slid up to her earlobe. “Although, truth, if you were my
wife, I would have a hard time leaving our bed.”

He began to kiss
her neck, tickling her skin with his mustache and moistening the path with his
tongue. As he worked down to her collarbone, she stretched her chin to give him
more access. Closing her eyes, her body felt as hot and molten as the forge
where Lucian heated his iron. A moaning sigh escaped her and Lucian rose up,
his mouth seeking hers.

Grabbing him by
the shoulders, she stiffened her arms and stopped him.

“No. We will not
do this.” She stepped backwards. “Tonight is my birthday party. At midnight, I
turn eighteen and I come into my dowry. I will be betrothed to Eric and we will
unite our two houses.”

“Eric.” Lucian
spat the name. “Weak-willed, slow-witted Eric? His family has been dangerously
inbred.”

“That’s not
important.”

“You don’t love
him.”

“Also not
important.” He was right about everything, but Lisette did not like to speak
badly about anyone. “I’m sure in time I’ll grow to love him.”

“He’ll never
make you purr the way I do.”

Her hand across
his face was immediate and stinging. He glowered at her and turned away. She
felt a lump at the pit of her stomach.

“Lucian, I need
you to understand.” Her words felt like lead on her tongue. “My family has much
wealth, but my brother is the heir. When they are gone, I get nothing. Even my
dowry is not my own. The money goes from my parents’ safekeeping to my husband,
if they approve of the marriage.”

She walked to
the window and looked out at the rolls of greenery that ran down to the cliffs,
out to the sea. “On my wedding night, my husband will have my body and my
money. All I will have left is my heart. That is mine to keep. If I marry you,
then I get no money and I lose my body and my heart. There will be nothing of
me left.”

The young man
joined her at the window and sat on the open ledge. “I never thought of you
losing your heart to me, Lizzy. I always thought it was an even trade.”

He slid down to
the balcony below and skipped over the wall to the ground. She watched him go,
angry with him for being so wrong for her in every way but one.

Saturday, August 9, 2014

I got a message in my email this morning from "The Amazon Books Team." I won't bore you with the entire contents, except to say that it was a big-long-letter to all Kindle authors stating Amazon's position regarding their fight with Hachette and why they think ebooks should not be $14.99. They asked me (and all Kindle authors) to email Hachette's CEO and tell him why we also think ebooks should not be priced at $14.99. I may indeed send them both an email. In the meantime, here's my very public reply:* * * * *Dear Mr. Pietsch of Hachette, Mr. Bezos of Amazon, and all interested parties,I got no dog in this fight of yours. I'm not a Hachette author. As a matter of fact, I'm not traditionally published. I'm an author-publisher. I can understand the fear of traditionally published authors in this fight. If their publishers can't sell ebooks for large amounts of money, then the authors' small amount of royalties will be even smaller. Of course, if the publishers paid a decent royalty rate, it wouldn't be so frightening, but what are you going to do when you are locked into a system that no one wants to change?As it is, my books are selling fairly briskly at the moment for $3.99 apiece and I get to keep $2.79 of that. So as an author, I'm only concerned in the outcome of the fight if it affects my sales and my profits.I do have something to say as a reader. Mr. Pietsch, I realize you think that Hachette is the Holy Grail of publishers and every book is perfection, but I refuse to pay $14.99 for an ebook. Much of the work to prepare an ebook is the same work you do for your hardcovers. The only difference is the formatting. Then you upload the book. No print runs, no warehouses, just upload the book - once. How is that worth $14.99 OVER AND OVER?In addition to the chafing feeling I have when I feel I'm being gouged, I have begun to hate buying traditionally published books because I think I'm feeding a system that keeps their authors at-heel. Authors, you created this wonderful world with these great characters! Why are you getting paid so little for your creation? Without you, the publisher wouldn't be publishing!Here is where I divulge that I might have paid more than $9.99 for some books, but it was done for research that I needed (and under protest, I might add). But I'm not paying $14.99 for a book I want to read just for pleasure, especially when that book is so locked up with DRM that I can't even loan it out to my husband's Kindle. So go ahead and have your fight. As a Kindle Select author-publisher, I admit, I am pro-Amazon, but at the end of the day, I want the authors to win. Sincerely yours,Gayle Carline